


You Little Fool

by Pervymonk



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal, F/M, Fantasy, Fist Fights, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral, Threesome, and then maxson caught feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pervymonk/pseuds/Pervymonk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sole Survivor is fed up with the Elder of the Brotherhood, and he’s just smitten, with both her and Danse. Major spoilers for Blind Betrayal. Super NSFW</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blow Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a music prompt on the Fallout Kink Meme
> 
> Title: Little Fool  
> Song: “Blow Up” by J. Cole/ “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” by Frank Sinatra  
> Pairings: implied F!SS/Danse, onesided F!SS/Maxson, onesided Maxson/Danse, also fantasied Maxson/F!SS/Danse  
> Summary: The Sole Survivor is fed up with the Elder of the Brotherhood, and he’s just smitten, with both her and Danse. Major spoilers for Blind Betrayal. Super NSFW  
> Tags: fighting, fantasy, masturbation, threesome, oral, anal  
> Fuck Maxson but also fuck Maxson, you feel me? This went places I wasn’t expecting.

_Bitch, I’m about to blow up_

Maxson likes to eat with his crew. It encourages camaraderie among the ranks, and helps to humanize him in the eyes of his soldiers. It also helps him to gauge the current mood of his crew and, if possible, remedy it.

The crew’s mood tonight is one of somber victory; a traitor to the Brotherhood has been dealt with, or so he has led his crew to believe. He watches as several of his brothers and sisters congratulate the newly appointed Paladin Whitman as she sits at the mess hall’s meager bar. Her back is ramrod straight and he watches as her grip tightens on her glass with every whisper of congratulation.

He doesn’t try to push down the anger he feels welling up in his chest at the thought of the previous day’s events. He’d followed her ( _he had known she couldn’t have gone through with it, and tried not to think of the vindictive cruelty that caused him to assign her to deal with Danse, when he had so many others suited for the job)_ as she’d made her way to the old listening post that Danse had hidden him- _itself_ -in.

Something ugly reared its head when he saw Danse exit first, and Whitman following close behind, her fingers interlocked with its. He had shouted, and screamed, and watched as the usual light in her eyes was replaced with something akin to _hatred._

Half of him thinks he’d only acquiesced to letting Danse live because he couldn’t stand to see her eyes shine with such hatred, where before they had been a curious caution and grudging respect. He’d always wanted to light a fire in her eyes, but the fire he saw in them at the listening post burned him too deeply.

When she’d returned to the Prydwen, and after Maxson spoke to her, she’d locked herself in her new quarters. They’d belonged to Danse, and Maxson had left his door open, sitting at his desk and debating with his quickly emptying bottle of Vodka about whether or not he should go talk to her. Maxson clears his throat, and the mess hall falls silent instantly.

“I’d like to commend one of our sisters for a job well done,” he begins and, no, he doesn’t imagine the tightening of her shoulders or the harsh intake of breath. “She tracked down and executed a traitor to the Brotherhood, a thing that pretended to be one of our own.” Maxson ignores the soft, choked sob of Scribe Haylen, sitting next to Whitman’s left. Whitman holds her hand out, and gently squeezes the scribe’s hand in a characteristic gesture of comfort. He sees the narrowing of Whitman’s eyes as she leans over to let Haylen rest her head on her shoulder.

“Paladin Danse was discovered to be an Institute synth, a bomb in an arsenal of many belonging to an enemy that needs to be destroyed,” he continues. “It lived with us, it befriended us, and then it fled once its true identity was discovered.” With every ‘it’ that falls from Maxson’s lips, he counts the quivers he sees run up and down Whitman’s spine.

“Because of Knight Whitman’s perseverance and dedication, she found and dealt with it the way it deserved,” he continues, almost wishing he hadn’t been swayed by her desire to let Danse live. “For that, she has earned the rank of Paladin, and my unending respect. It tricked her, more than anyone else, and she rose to the occasion beautifully.” He raises his glass. “To Paladin Whitman, and to the death of the Institute traitor!” The crowd cheers, raising their glasses in a salute. The shattering of a glass halts any festivities before they can begin. He watches as Whitman shakes the shards of glass from her hand and stands, pulling herself away from Haylen to stalk toward him.

“Paladin, is there a-“ Maxson begins but his question is cut short by Whitman socking him across the jaw. A collective gasp echoes throughout the mess hall, almost loud enough to shake the Prydwen, and Brandis is at Whitman’s side in an instant, a hand gripping her arm tightly. Haylen appears at the other, holding back the arm Whitman had punched him with. Maxson gingerly rubs his jaw with one hand, and with the other he motions for Brandis and Haylen to step away.

“You son of a bitch,” Whitman says through clenched teeth. “You sorry son of a bitch!”

“Paladin, what is the meaning of this-“ Maxson starts again, deftly dodging the next blow she tries to strike on him. “Of this insubordinate outburst?”

“Danse was the best of us,” she says, and he’s pathetically grateful that she’s going along with the lie of Danse’s death. “He was loyal, and kind, and you just-you-“she swings at him and he catches her wrist this time.

“Danse was a _machine,”_ he stresses. “Those virtues you just listed? They were artificially implanted to help him blend in. It was none of those things, it-“ he grunts as she knees him in the stomach and he lets go of her hand.

” _Danse is not a thing,”_ she hisses, and he hopes he’s the only one to catch her slip in tense.

“I see,” he exhales. “Is this how you want to handle this, Paladin?” He accepts the harshness of her gaze as his answer. Loudly, he announces,

“No matter the outcome of this, no one is to seek retaliation against this Paladin. Am I understood?” There is no verbal answer, but Maxson accepts the wide-eyed half-nods as acceptance.

“Clear the way!” he barks, and several Brotherhood members scramble from their seats. He steps back from Whitman, removing his gloves. “Very well, Paladin.” He divides his weight between his two feet, raising his fists in a fighting stance. He motions to her with one hand and, with a strangled cry of rage, she attacks.

She’s angry, and grieving, and _God,_ the last thing Maxson wants to do is hurt her. But she’s gotten better at fighting hand-to-hand and each blow she lands on him burns. He doesn’t want to hurt her but, if this is the choice she has made, he won’t go easy on her. His hand fists in the front of her shirt, and he punches her in her stomach.

“You’re as foolish as you are insubordinate,” he grunts after she lands a well-placed return blow to his sternum. Maxson is a large, strong man, but Whitman is fast. “All of this over a machine? I shudder to think of how you’d act if your coffee pot quit working.”

“There was a man in Germany,” she almost snarls. “Who decided one day that several groups of people didn’t deserve to live, simply because they were different from what he thought people should be. He ended up killing 11 million of them because of his damned prejudices!”

“That’s the problem, Whitman!” he shouts, his voice echoing off of the mess hall walls and causing more than a few recruits to flinch. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he grabs her wrists when she swings and pushes her back from him. She stumbles over a group of chairs before catching herself. “Those _things_ you’re striving to protect, those _ghouls,_ those _synths,”_ he spits distastefully. “They aren’t really people at all!”

“You are a genocidal megalomaniac! Only a monster would want to massacre groups of _people_ because they were made, not born!” she yells back, and he knows she’s quoting that damned synth she travels with, the one that thinks itself a detective. She laughs brokenly and says,

“There’s really no hope for you, is there, Arthur?”

Something in him breaks at that-he doesn’t know if it’s the tone of accusation in her voice, or her use of his first name-but he charges her. He slams into her and her breath leaves her in one painful exhale, and as her back slams into the bar he can hear ribs breaking.

She still finds the strength to escape his punches that land on her-her body is so soft, and he always imagined exploring it in a more gentle way-and she pushes him over the bar. She follows him as lunch trays and half-full drinks spill over the mess hall floor with loud clanking. She’s astride him, her muscled legs clenched around his waist. She’s punching him with a ferocity he’s never seen from her and, perversely, he’s proud-proud of the way her blows burn, of the way that it was _him_ that drew this kind of anger from her. He’d always thought her unshakable, untouchable, _frozen_ but here she is trembling above him and pressing the weight of her body against his.

He uses the weight of his larger body to roll the two of them over. They’re next to the bar, hidden from sight. He takes both her wrists in one of his large hands, and pins them above her head. He’s lying flat over her, his body weight pressing between her thighs, and without thinking he reaches a hand up to touch the ugly purple bruise blossoming over her cheek.

She flails underneath him, trying to buck him off, and he bites his already ruined fat lip in an effort to keep from groaning. She stills as she rubs against him and her eyes widen at the feeling of his arousal, hard and hot, pressing tightly against the cradle of her thighs.

“If it was relief you needed, all you had to do was ask,” he says hotly. Something past anger and more like desperation lights up her eyes. He’s so close to her, in ways he’d only before imagined and he can feel the heat of her breath hot against his chin.

“Clara,” he murmurs softly, never having the nerve to use her first name before though he’s known it since the moment she walked onto the Prydwen. She makes a strangled sound, and he doesn’t know if it’s anger or pleasure. Her lips feel dry but soft against his, and he moves against her when he feels her still completely underneath him. The taste of her is startlingly sharp, reminding him of jumping into the slowly purified Potomac as a boy, and he kisses her with a nostalgic ache he didn’t know he was still capable of feeling. His hand slides from her face to grip her hip, pulling it sharply against him, and he breaks away from her with a gasp. Her labored breathing causes his to be labored in return, and he sees sweat glisten over her brow. She groans deeply as he shifts his weight, brow furrowing in pain as she aches her head back, and he leans down to kiss her again.

With a strangled cry of rage, she headbutts Maxson in the face. Her head knocks against the top of his nose, between his eyes, and the crack of his nose breaking echoes throughout the mess. He howls, pulling back and blood dribbles over his chin to land on her cheeks. He backhands her, and the answering crack of her check both satisfies and sickens him. She rolls away from him, pushing herself to her feet, and she kicks him in the ribs. He curls in on himself, flexing his body in an effort to keep her from breaking his ribs-he doesn’t envy her the pain he’s caused her. His rests his hand on her calf, squeezing it, and he doesn’t know if it’s in an effort to stop her or to prolong how long he touches her.

She spits a glob of blood and spit, mixed with broken teeth, next to his face. He watches her through blurry eyes as she pulls her holotags out from under the collar of her shirt and yanks at the chain with a sharp pull, breaking it. She drops them down onto his side, and turns to walk away.

“Paladin!” he chokes. He pushes himself up on shaky arms, pulling himself up on the bar. “We’re the only chance we have to find your son!” She freezes, and half-turns back. He desperately wants her to come back to him, even if she tries to fight him again, but she continues walking away. Brandis tries to block her way.

“Do you want a piece of me too, Brandis?” she slurs around her broken tooth. “Get the fuck out of my way!” Brandis looks lost, so Maxson makes the decision for him.

“Let her through,” he calls, wiping away the blood that spills over his chin. “And tell the vertibird pilots to take Paladin Whitman where ever she wants to go.” She sneers at his use of her title, and he watches as she walks out of his life.


	2. You Can Never Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxson masturbates to the thought of both the sole survivor and Danse, realizes he's caught feelings

_I'd sacrifice anything come what might for the sake of having you near_  
_In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night and repeats_  
_Repeats in my ear_  
_Don't you know little fool_  
_You never can win_

Maxson enters her quarters, and tries to think of them as current rather than former. His nose hurts like a bitch, the dose of Med-X Cade had given him fading almost immediately after Cade had set his nose, and when he lays himself across the bed, he knows he should avoid touching his nose to the bedding. He can’t help himself, and he gathers the pillow to prop against his cheek, and inhales deeply.

He can still smell the scent of her-her sweat, the soap she’d used to wash her hair, that odd aroma that’d he’d always tried to keep from admiring.

His hands slide down over the hard planes of his stomach, and he undoes his belt buckle with an almost frantic desperation. He runs his hand over the hardness of his erection. His battlecoat had hidden it from view while his wounds were being treated, and it hadn’t been noticed by Whitman until she felt it from thrashing beneath him. He moans at the memory of her wrists pinned by one of his hands-they were large enough to engulf her wrists-and of how the wildness of her hair beneath her had only been matched by the wildness of her eyes.

He shouldn’t have kissed her.

He rolls himself over on his back as pumps himself in his hand, closing his eyes and trying to imagine her beneath him in kinder circumstances. She’d be _willing,_ and so beautiful. The harshness in her eyes would be nonexistent, and he’d only see love light up her eyes. He groans, half in pleasure and half in despair.

He’d take his time with her, slowly undressing her. He’d run his hands over the softness of skin, pressing his lips to the stretch marks he’d seen whenever he watched her stretch her arms above her head, the hem of her shirt always lifting _just so._ He’d smile at her hesitantly as she rubbed her palm over his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard, and he would press his lips to her palm. He would gently part her legs, kissing his way down to her sex. He would use his mouth on her, turning her into a quivering mess, and he pumps himself harder at the thought of what she would sound like, of what she would taste like.

Underneath the scent of Clara, Maxson can smell _Danse_ as well, and he almost sobs at the shock of anguished pleasure that rolls over his spine. Maxson had favored Danse, and Clara, both as Brotherhood soldiers and as people. He’d spent many more nights than he’d wanted to admit taking himself in hand to the thought of the two of them. God, he’d been half tempted more than proposition Danse, hoping that he would have said yes without any hesitation and knowing that he never would. Clara was right, Danse _was_ a good soldier-so proper and loyal that Maxson aches from thinking of him.

 _It,_ his mind hisses desperately, and his hand slows its stroking. _Danse is an it._ But thinking it is no use-Maxson’s fantasy shifts. He rolls over onto his stomach, supporting himself on an elbow and fucking into his hand.

Danse would lay on his back with Clara astride him. His hands would hover over Clara’s thick hips, almost as if he were afraid to lay his hands on her. Her head would be thrown back as she rode him, and Danse would be looking up at her with that doe-like look Maxson had often seen him give her when he thought no one was watching. Her hands would be splayed across Danse’s chest, and the man would be shaking with effort. He’d want to stay quiet, so he could hear her.

In his fantasy, he imagines Clara’s desperate, breathy moans ( _and hates that the only source of memory he has to pull for her cries is from the various sounds of pain he’s heard her make)_ and sees himself quietly walking up to the foot of the bed. He would position himself behind Clara, grabbing lube from the drawer of the nightstand, and he would run his hand over the curve of her ass as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“ _Can I?”_ he would ask against her cheek, and she would moan,

“ _Yes, yes, please!”_ He would be careful, of course. He would prepare her, and enter her slowly, taking care to ask her,

“ _Does it hurt? Tell me if it does.”_

 _“It’s fine,”_ she would gasp, one hand reaching up to curve around his neck. “ _Arthur,”_ he imagines her saying, and he shudders at the thought of his name falling from her lips. “ _If you don’t fuck me, I’ll go crazy.”_

 _“Language,”_ Danse would gasp, and she would roll her hips _just so,_ turning Danse into a gulping, cursing mess. Clara’s laugh would be cut off by her groaning. Arthur would wait until he was fully inside before moving. Clara would lean over, and he would run his hands down her spine, until he got to her hips where Danse’s hand would still be hovering. He would cover the other man’s-here, in the waking world, he moans-and push his hands down. Danse’s hands would grip Clara’s hips like he never wanted to let go, and Maxson would weave his fingers with Danse’s.

Clara would be a beautiful, blabbering mess, and Maxson would watch as Danse turned his head to kiss her. She would moan into Danse’s mouth, and he would kiss her as though there was no one else in the world. Arthur would lean down, changing the angle that he was thrusting into Clara, and brush his lips against Danse’s cheek. Clara would break away with a pleasured scream, pressing her lips to the pillow. Danse would look at Maxson with those dazed doe eyes, and whisper,

“ _Arthur.”_ Danse would kiss him differently than he had Clara. With her, he would be all sweetness but with him, Danse’s kiss would be a rough, almost painful thing. Their tongues would battle for dominance, and Maxson would greedily consume Danse’s moans.

“ _Hey,”_ Clara would almost whine breathlessly. “ _Arthur-“_ and at that, Maxson would turn to kiss her while Danse lavished her breasts with tender, sucking kisses.

Maxson imagines watching them come apart beneath them, first Clara with breathy moans that turn into wails. He tightens his hand as he imagines the way she would tighten around both he and Danse. Danse would try to hold out, but he would throw his head back and thrust wildly up into Clara as he spilled into her. Watching Danse come undone would undo him, and he thrusts erratically into his hand. He comes with a shout he can’t even think to quiet, explosions happening behind his eyes as he spills himself on the sheets Clara and Danse used to sleep in.

He opens his eyes, and ice seeps into his bones when he thinks about how he is without either of them.


End file.
